


I remember the days

by WhatCouldBeMoreAmazing



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Flashback, M/M, Nick vs Shakespeare drama, Nigel is adorable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatCouldBeMoreAmazing/pseuds/WhatCouldBeMoreAmazing
Summary: After another long, stressful day, the last thing Will expected was to be taken on a roller-coaster of memories (fond and foul) of his darkest days and the two brothers who got him out of them - and all because of one tiny newspaper article lying on top of his desk.





	1. The Article

_The light in Will's room flickered on as he stumbled in, stretching and groaning as he went._

_"Bloody photographers..." The bard grumbled to himself as he collapsed into his worn leather chair and spun aimlessly, adopting a whimpering, nasally voice to add to his mocking. "It'll only take a few hours, Mr. Shakespeare! This pose won't be awkward or painful at all, Mr. Shakespeare!" He sighed, stretching again to soften the ache of his throbbing back and lazily scanned his desk. "And then they keep me in for the whole bloody after-"_

_A newspaper. A remarkably simple thing in day-to-day life; They seem to be everywhere, but you rarely see anyone reading them other than as something to do during the dull commute to work. Quite frankly, there is nothing interesting about them. But this particular paper, the one that Will had so carelessly threw down on the surface without a second glance earlier that day, had caught his attention and caused his sentence to trail off pathetically._

_The reason for this was a hauntingly familiar face. a small, insignificant picture tucked inside a small, insignificant article. Yes, admittedly he had clearly gained a few pounds since the last time Will had seen him, and his once youthful face was now lined with stress, but it was most certainly him - and the title of the article just stood to prove it._

_"Jealous Playwright Nick Bottom Reveals Why He Hates William Shakespeare"_

_Will's first reaction was to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the appalling choice of title. His second was to panic. Because the truth was, he had a back story with Nick Bottom. And it wasn't  all exactly what you'd call sunshine and rainbows._

_Fear flooded Will's mind and drowned any common sense or reasoning. Nick and Will's rocky friendship had hardly ended on good terms. What if Nick used all the information he had about Will to his advantage? What if he told the whole world about his past to get revenge? even worse, what if he destroyed Will's reputation, ruining his career and bringing him right back to the start? He_ _did his best to calm down. Deep breathes in and out. In. Out. But his heart was still racing as he stared at the man who had helped him so much in his darkest hours, and yet brought him straight back down again so many times. He couldn't bring himself to read the article. Not yet. Instead, he took a swig from one of the half empty cans of beer next to him (left over from that morning's writing session) and hurriedly threw the newspaper straight in the bin. Despite this, he still found himself being dragged down into a spiral of memories long pushed away..._

 

The bus rushed past inches away from the young man's face. Shouting and jeering followed for the next few seconds as he stumbled back into a crowd of rowdy teenagers and loud-mouthed tourists. Will did his best to look dignified whilst singing curse words back at the crowds. The world seemed to swirl in front of his eyes, vehicles whizzing past, music blaring from every corner, people -so many people! - pushed and shoved past him, making him dizzy and disorientated. London was a far cry from his home town of Stratford-Upon-Avon. He didn't know where he was. he didn't know how to find out where he was. he needed to sit down.

After finally finding a low stone wall to perch on (It was damp, but that was the least of his issues) he patted all his pockets in search for his phone and wallet.

Nothing.

Slowly, accompanied by an awful feeling of dread rushing over him, Will reached into the front pocket of his satchel.

Oh God.

In a last, desperate and ridiculously optimistic attempt to find the two things that could solve all his problems right now, he delved into the inside of his bag, wading through layers and layers of scraps of paper and broken biros.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Will had come to London without a plan. only now did he realised how ridiculous that was.

He felt his head sink into his hands. what the hell was he going to do? He had no home, no money, no contact to the outside world.

He was stuck in a living, bustling, urban wasteland.

Hours were spent wandering aimlessly, searching the streets for a solution. Even more hours were spent wondering aimlessly, searching his mind for a solution. To no avail.

William Shakespeare, also known as The Bard, slept on the streets that night. And the next. And the next. And the floor was almost as filthy as the looks people gave him as they walked past. And the amount of money he groveled for each day was almost as much as what someone would carelessly throw into a wishing well. And his frostbitten fingers and uncontrollably shaking body was almost as cold as the reception he got from anyone he approached - employers, shop keepers, strangers in the street. Because William Shakespeare, also known as The Bard, was not yet the Shakespeare or the Bard the people would come to respect and admire as a genius and a hero. Right now, he was simply Will. And he had nothing.

 

 


	2. Pain and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Will desperately tries (and fails) to survive life on the streets, he finds salvation in two brothers who couldn't help but notice his acting and writing skills hidden beneath a bruised and broken exterior.

There were only two things that could comfort Will at that time - sleeping and writing.

When he was sleeping - that is, when he managed to sleep at least - his mind would race away to far-off dreams of success and fame, glory and riches. He dreamt of crowds chanting his name and critics singing his praises. He dreamt of everyone appreciating - no, scrap that - loving,  _worshipping_ his work, losing themselves in his stories and songs. He dreamt of having enough money to afford a luxurious bed and a roof above his head, three meals every day and shelves full to the brim with books and plays.

When he wrote, he could pour his heart out through his chewed and broken biro into a tiny notebook; anything he ever dreamed of, good or bad, was emptied into the book. All his ideas and musings and descriptions of everything and anything. Songs that captured the essence of the city, despite the city having never given him anything back. And plays, full plays, so long that they eventually filled up the notebook and Will had to use messy scraps of paper instead. They were an emotional outlet, a cry for help.  And Will would put them to use. Standing in a bustling corner of Covent Garden, he would sing and act for money. He could flawlessly perform any of his monologues, and he had no trouble putting on a singing, dancing, mock rockstar show for anyone who would listen. Whether they thought he was a talented performer or a raving madman was another story, but at least it brought in more than begging at the feet of hurried commuters.

But living such a dismal, lonely life on the street was driving him mad, and writing and sleeping alone couldn't keep him sane.

Eventually, in an attempt to clutch onto humanity, as so many others in his situation do, Will had turned to drink.

He remembered it so clearly. It started when he had earned more money than usual whilst performing. It was strange. He should have been glad about that, and in a sense he was, but he still felt utterly miserable despite that small achievement. He was desperate to escape from reality for just a bit, escape from the sinking depression he could never quite pull himself out of. So the next time he walked into a small 24-hour shop to grab a sandwich, he walked straight past the bottles of water and Coke and grabbed a pack of beers from the alcohol section. It was bloody expensive, and as Will paid for everything the awful realisation that he only had 10p left in his pocket sank in. Nevertheless, he marched on and out of the shop, ignoring the disapproving looks he was getting from the other customers.

And thus, it began.

The burning sensation of the drink sliding down his throat gave Will the illusion of warmth - of a large, cosy bed, of a gentle, flickering fire, of the bittersweet heat of human touch. The alcohol blurred his vision, and the people walking past with their noses in the air merged together as one. He got to sleep easier. Better than that, he didn't need to sleep as much, because the dreams he had whilst asleep seemed even more real whilst awake and drunk. When he was drunk he couldn't think straight, and that was the best bit - he didn't care.

Obviously, he had to have money to afford the drink, so he did his best to keep sober for part of the day so that he could perform. Only occasionally did he perform drunk, and the jeering and shouting immediately put that to an end. But it was too late by then. Will had been well and truly hooked. And as his addiction grew, so did his curiosity. He went straight from alcohol to drugs. He didn't care what went down his throat or into his bloodstream as long as it helped dull the pain of his pathetic existence. The solution to hangovers and crashes - more alcohol and drugs. It was a vicious cycle that he had trapped himself in.

And yet, in the midst of all of this, he pretended to be okay. No, he wasn't intoxicated, no, he didn't need help, no, thank you, you do not need to call the police or the paramedics! He was a very good actor (at least when he wasn't sky-high) so he could usually persuade anyone that he was just fine. All it took was a dashing smile and a look in his soft blue eyes that could melt stone. Yes, he was homeless, yes, he hadn't eaten in a day, slept in a week or washed in two, but he still knew how to be charismatic. It was one of his ~ many ~ skills, and he sure as Hell wasn't putting it to waste. It didn't matter that 99% of the time, the only person he had to convince was himself. 

He was in the middle of one of his better, less hung over performances when salvation came. Salvation in the form of an awkward, lanky 15 year old boy gaping at him from across the street. When the boy was done gazing at Will in admiration, he hurriedly pointed him out to a man who looked only slightly older than Will himself. Will was well versed in observation by this point, and, from their mannerisms alone, came to the conclusion that they were most likely brothers.

The surprise and delight of seeing someone actually being enraptured by his performance was a happiness Will couldn't remember experiencing ever before - or certainly not in the last few months at least. Suddenly impressing these insignificant brothers with his monologue was the most important thing in the world; everything else faded away as he maximised his performance, giving it all he could. It was like drugs, minus the crashes, the dizziness, and the ever-looming threat of serious health issues. Will was no longer Will - a half-arsed, alcoholic, drug-addicted street performer in faded and ripped clothes that hung loosely off his malnourished body. He was William Shakespeare - a healthy, happy, drug-free star with fans worshipping the very ground he stood on. It was brilliant.

That vision started to slip away as the brothers approached Will, watching him carefully, judging. He couldn't see any paper notes or shimmering coins peeking out of their closed fists, so why were they approaching him? Were they going to mug him? Had they found some illegal drug he'd been using and were here to arrest him? Will knew he couldn't defend himself.

But smiles were plastered onto the brother's faces, and friendly admiration shone from them as they came closer, slowing down Will's fearful breathing to an almost-normal level. And as they finally reached him the most unexpected, most terrifying, and most wonderful thing happened. The older brother held out his hand to Will.

Now this doesn't seem all that extraordinary to anyone else, but the last time anyone had shaken Will's hand was when his father did so curtly and awkwardly, as Will left home with a promise to never return. And although he had been rendered pretty rusty in the art of manners and conversation, he was fairly sure that this hand casually outstretched towards him was an act of friendship, not required politeness.

Will couldn't move. He couldn't shake his hand. He was pretty sure the man was saying something, probably introducing himself and his little brother, but his words were lost in Will's astonishment. Why was he so overwhelmed? He told himself that if he even came close to tears he would force himself to leave. And with that, he slowly looked up into the eyes of the brother.

".. And so, we were wondering if you'd like to audition for our acting group? You're free to do any writing as well if you like. In fact, we'd be grateful for the help- are... are you okay?"

The man seemed to have finally realised that his outstretched arm had not been shaken, and that the young man he was talking to looked as he was about to faint. Which was entirely possible.

_Pull yourself together, Will. This is your chance to get out of this mess. Don't let them know, whatever you do. Don't. Let. Them. Know._

"I-umm, yes, I'm fine! Sorry, I zoned out for a second there. The name's William Shakespeare. Who did you say you were again?" Will could summon up a smile even in the situation he was currently in, so as he flashed a winning grin at the brothers, they seemed to be convinced. As the older brother opened his mouth to speak again, the younger one rushed in, apparently having found his voice.

"I'm Nigel, and this is Nick. Nick and Nigel Bottom. We're brothers. Obviously. Umm," he stuttered nervously, and for one small, disgusting second Will felt that he, for the first time in years, was above someone. But then Nigel soldiered on. "You see, we loved your performance. You should be on a stage, not the streets! Not that there's anything wrong the streets, i was just, i mean... anyway, do you want to audition to join our group? Our acting group, i mean. Well it's Nick's really, but-"

"I'd love to!" In the past, Will would have been worried about sounding too enthusiastic, and would do his best to casual instead, but today he couldn't care less. Besides, the boy was rambling. This was a chance of survival! A glimmer of hope at the end of a dark, painful tunnel. In his mind's eye, he reached out for that light and it's warmth filtered through his fingers and bathed him in sunlight. In reality, he reached out and shook Nick and Nigel's hands in turn. It was strange - the warmth and clamminess of another person's hand. It was also wonderful.

Nick, clearly eager to make sure Nigel didn't scare this amazing talent away, quick-fired the details of the audition at him and turned to leave. But as they faded into the crowd, Nigel stopped once more to give Will a sheepish wave.

And Will waved back.

 

 

 

 


	3. Take the Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will grabbed the opportunity to work as an actor in the Bottom brothers' acting group. But he hadn't expected to have to interact with people... maybe, after all these years, he could reignite his love of winning people over, just through talking.

 

_Pounding heart._

_Shallow breathing._

_Sweaty palms._

This was ridiculous.

Will spent hour after hour performing in front of hundreds of people. In fact, when he wasn't, he was completely out of it, so all he could remember most of the time was performing. To put it straight, it was his entire life. And he'd never felt nervous about it before. Not like this, anyway. So why now, standing at the front of a small line waiting to be called up to audition for the Bottom brother's acting group, was he feeling so sick and faint? Why were a million butterflies - no wait, not butterflies - snakes, millions of snakes, squirming and slithering inside his stomach as he waited in front of the doors to the stage? Why now?

And then he realised.

It was because, no matter how many people walked passed his little corner in Covent Garden, glancing in his direction or even dropping a penny by his feet, they would never  _really_ care about his performance. They wouldn't sit down to watch an entire performance or spend hours contemplating how decent his writing was. They wouldn't remember his name or praise him or criticise him. To them, he was simply background music, but to the Bottom brothers, he was potential. And - being completely honest here - that scared him. It was scary that someone cared.

_"Could William Shakespeare please come through."_

Nick's voice rang out from behind the door. He can be loud, Will thought to himself whilst shakily smoothing out his creased top and running a hand through his long hair.

The rest was a blur.

He saw Nick and Nigel's encouraging faces, saw the weak lights shining down onto the creaky wooden stage, heard his voice as he acted and sung, felt his feet automatically move beneath him as he performed.

The fear was gone, replaced by the joy he felt whenever he displayed his art. The fantasy in his mind soon started up and all of a sudden the old, dusty theatre was new and vibrant, and was packed to the brim with enthusiastic fans.

The dream slipped away when Will finished.

His heart was still pounding and his breathing was still shallow - and he was sweatier than when he had started - but this time it was out of exhilaration, not fear. Confidence surged through him. He'd done great. He was sure of it. For once, the sinking feeling that came every time he finished a performance and the illusion of happiness had left his mind, didn't come. 

Will took an exaggerated bow as Nick and Nigel gave clapped enthusiastically - Nigel admittedly more so. He was turning to leave as Nick called out to him.

"Will! Sorry, but before you go, do you mind if I gave you my number? I forgot to give it to you yesterday and, well there's no way we'll be able to tell you that you're most certainly hired unless we ring you." He grinned as he finished his sentence, waiting for Will's delighted response. He wasn't disappointed.

Will could have cried. He didn't, of course - he always clung on to that small scrap of dignity he had left as if it was a rope that could pull him up from the dark abyss he was trapped in. But the possibility was there.

"Thank you, I - I'm so grateful, I- umm..." All at once his heart dropped and he could see the brother's happy faces cloud over with worry as he felt his own face fall. " I umm, I don't have a phone. I do have some scrap paper though! And there's plenty of pigeons in Covent Garden - perhaps we could communicate via carrier pigeon?"

Unlike usual, his stupid jokes and casual grin failed to hide his embarrassment. Probably because this time his joke was awful, his voice was shaky and his grin wasn't big enough to hide the look in his eyes. Nick and Nigel obviously weren't fooled. Damnit, what was it about these brothers? They could see right through him.

Nick composed himself. There was a look in his eye - what was it... pity? No, not quite. It seemed to be more of a... determination.

"Then I have a better idea."

* * *

 

The fragile piece of paper fluttered in the wind, threatening to blow away completely if Will relaxed his grip just for a second. He marched on down the road, shoulders hunch, windswept hair shielding his eyes from the bitter weather. God he hated winter. His eyes glanced down to the address on the paper in front of him then back to the houses lining the street he was walking up. It was almost intimidating - these houses weren't grand, but they weren't crap either. Hell, the idea of a house alone was enough to make Will tremble with jealousy. He made a mental note to not sound as if he cared when he got there. He didn't want to sound ungrateful - he wanted to show that he would be eternally grateful to Nick and Nigel, not only for noticing him in the first place, but for not giving up on him, even when continuing to help him probably caused them many inconveniences. He doubted that many other auditioners had to come round their house to organise meet-ups and rehearsals because they didn't have a phone. Yes, there was no doubt about it, William Shakespeare was most definitely an inconvenience.

Despite this, a small voice popped up in his head. It told him that he wasn’t an inconvenience – he was a gift. That Nick and Nigel had every reason to go out of their way to get him in their acting group; they saw the amazing performer and actor he is and realized that they needed him. They couldn’t afford to let this fantastic talent go. It said that he deserved every bit of attention they were giving him.

His self-hate fought back against this strange gloating. Will felt as though he was watching this battle from the side-lines. He despised ow much he hated himself and the situation he was in, but he was also ashamed of how egotistical and narcissistic his other half was. He wished he could find a balance, a compromise, but for now he’d have to put up with swinging wildly from one state of mind to another.

As he finally reached the right address and headed towards the front door, he froze. It was unintentional - he just could seem to take another step further. It was as if something has just slapped him right around the face and buggered off before he could figure out what it was.

A year.

He hadn't stepped foot in a house for an entire year.

He thought he'd got used to living on the streets, but now, as he prepared to step into the Bottom household, a wave of emotions came over him. Oh sure, he'd been in plenty of buildings - hostels, soup kitchens, anywhere with a drop of alcohol in it. but a  _house..._ that was different. A house was where memories were made and relationships started and hearts broken. A house was a home if you managed to make it personal enough. Was Will ready to face that?

Ah, screw it.

_ding dong._

* * *

 

That first visit was the hardest. It seemed as though Will's manners had become slightly rusty over the past year, although he had only just begun to realise it. He had been surprised to be let in by a young, welcoming red-headed woman called Bea, and it took him a shamefully long amount of time to realise she must be Nick's girlfriend. Nick and Nigel, as it turned out, were stuck in traffic, so he was alone in the house with Bea for a full hour.

It was painfully awkward at first. All of a sudden Will was self conscious of everything. He knew he didn't smell good and his heart sank when he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror in the hall - he looked as bad as he felt. He didn't know how to act, what to do or say. It was as if he left all his charisma and confidence at the door. He was desperate to scoff the entire plate of biscuits on the table and down his steaming tea in one, but that would be impolite, so instead he resigned himself to staring longingly at the hobnobs and clutching his tea with both hands. He spent at least 10 long minutes trying (and failing) to make small-talk with Bea, but eventually he quietened down and gratefully let Bea lead the conversation. Listening to her talk was a lot less stressful than being expected to talk himself. She told Will about the acting group, and how she took on extra jobs so that Nick could continue with the group. It was clear how much she believed in her boyfriend, and never gave up on him, even if he gave up on himself sometimes. Her optimism and determination amazed Will. As he sat there, listening to her ramble as she made more tea or did the dishes, he couldn't help thinking what an amazing woman she must be.

It had been 30 minutes and all conversation had lapsed into silence. Instead, Bea kept glancing in Will's direction, biting her bottom lip worriedly.

"Get in the shower."

Will choked on his tea. "I- I'm sorry,  _what?_ "

Bea stood up, a determined glint in her eye. "You heard me. Up the stairs, second door to your right. There's towels in the cupboard." When Will didn't move, she raised an eyebrow and pointed to the stairs. "Come on! You were shivering when you walked in - you need a hot shower. Besides, you and your clothes need a wash. Throw them outside the door and I'll put them through. Go on!"

Will was stunned - when had the kind, polite woman he had been talking to not a moment ago been replaced by someone so harsh and blunt? 

But as he stripped out of his ragged clothes in the bathroom (and was glad to find a lock on the door) and stepped into a scalding yet dreamlike shower, Will had never been so grateful to someone in his entire life.

After that first... interesting trip to the Bottom household, things got easier. Will visited at least once every week; at the start he came to organise rehearsals, collect rewrites and go, but before long he was coming over for a chat and a hot meal almost every day. It was the closest thing to a home Will had – in fact, he almost felt more at home than he had with his family. He tried to forget his family.

The acting troupe was his entire life; he could spend hours doing what he loved and get paid for it too! (and properly paid, too – not just a few pennies at the bottom of his satchel) So it wasn’t the best paying or most reliable job, and – although he would never tell Nick and Nigel – he spend many a rehearsal musing a dozen different ways their current project could be improved, who cares? He still loved it.

Moreover, Will had become so busy (he suddenly had responsibilities: rehearsals, learning his lines, and visiting Nick, Nigel and Bea) slowly, bit by bit, he began to ease himself off the painful cycle of drugs he was trapped inside of. How could he practice his lines when he was higher than a kite?

For some ludicrous reason, this made Will think he could escape his addictions without telling a soul. That he could get rid of them in no time and the Bottom brothers would never have to get involved. God knows, he was far too optimistic.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's a shitty person? I'm a shitty person! (yay)  
> I'm sooo sorry for not updating this in like 4 fricking months - I'm an asshole, I know - but life happened and stuff got in the way and I also went through a phase where the only thing happening in my head was the entire Falsettos cast recording (damn I love that show). But if anyone's still interested, hey, I'm back!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!  
> So this is my very first fanfic on here. I was planning to make an account for ages but i never got around to it, until i realised that the amount of Something Rotten fanfics was PATHETICALLY small, and i couldn't resist any longer. So, i'm not entirely sure how this works, but hey, hope you liked it anyway!


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